The Sultan's Eyes (4 page)

It took another three days of badgering, debate, assurances, threats and bribery to get Willem to change his mind, albeit reluctantly. He finally agreed only because Luis promised to take over the business in our absence and operate it as if we were still there.

‘But I should be with you,’ Luis said.

‘We will send for you if we must,’ said Signora Contarini. ‘The best thing you can do is take care of my press.’

‘I will guard it with my life.’

‘No need for that. Presses can be replaced if necessary. You cannot. All I ask is that you keep it running. Publish meditations and books of the saints to which nobody can object. We will wait for the storm to blow over. I don’t think Fra Clement will tarry here long after he finds we’ve gone. We will outlast him, and return to make even more mischief.’

‘A tactical retreat?’ asked Luis.

‘Quite.’

‘I will see you safely to the ship, at least.’

‘And I’ll protect you for the rest of the journey,’ said Willem. He put on his fierce face.

Signora Contarini patted his arm. ‘Of course you will, my dear. Bless you. Come, Isabella, we have work to do.’

For a day or two, as if by some unspoken signal, we all pretended that the world could go on as it had before, as if nothing had changed, as if nobody threatened us.

We turned back to what we knew best: the press, the books, the familiar rituals of typesetting, proofreading and collating. The men who worked for us carried on as always, quietly tending to the press, delivering finished pages to the bookbinders, making up the type, trimming the sheets. We were working on a Latin Book of Hours, the most inoffensive project we could think of, reproducing an old volume with woodcuts that Luis had found in Genoa. We all worked late into the night, just as we always had, and our words and pages flowed off the press like poems.

I felt, as I so often did, that my dear Master de Aquila was beside us in spirit. I often talked to him, silently, as I worked; wondered if he could look down on all the hundreds of copies of the first edition of
The Sum of All Knowledge
in houses all over Europe, fulfilling his dream of opening people’s eyes to the wonders of the world. I wished that he could know what a sensation his encyclopaedia had caused; how many readers had written to me praising its detail, its wisdom. It was all his: his vision, his book, his legacy to me and to the world.

‘You were born to this, Isabella,’ the
signora
said one evening. ‘Just like me.’

I smiled at her. ‘I can’t think of any better way to spend a life. It feels as if each book is a treasure we give to anyone who ever reads the lines of print we make, absorbs the ideas, the poetry, the power in the words.’

I plucked a fresh page off the press and felt the soft dimpling of the paper between my fingers.

‘I don’t know about all that,’ said Willem, holding up a book. ‘But look at this binding. See how the corners are all wrinkled?’

We both peered at the book in his hands. To my eyes it looked perfect.

‘I’ll be having a sharp word with that bookbinder, let me tell you,’ said Willem. He wandered off, muttering to himself about the price of calfskin.

Signora Contarini watched him go. ‘I confess, I didn’t hold out much hope for Willem when we first met,’ she said.

‘I know. I could tell.’

‘Was it that obvious?’

I laughed.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I’m not very good at pretence. I cannot help but express what I feel.’

‘It’s one of your many charms,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. He thought you were crazed, at first, so you’re even.’

‘It’s different now,’ she said. ‘You can rely on him. We both can.’

‘I trust him with my life. Although I hope I never have to — not again.’

‘He has grown into a good man and strong,’ she said. ‘He’s a craftsman.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘Do I? I don’t mean it to be. We need craftsmen; we need the practical, the expert, the skilled hands. But …’

I felt as if I knew what she was about to say, as I so often did nowadays.

‘But it’s not enough?’

She shook her head. ‘For a compositor? Yes. For a workshop foreman? Absolutely. For someone on whom we can depend to manage the practical side of our business? Yes, we cannot do without him. Willem will make a very fine printer. But a publisher? A visionary? No. He is neither of those things.’ She paused. ‘You are.’

I blinked. ‘Me?’ So much for knowing what she would say next.

‘You know it to be true, Isabella.’

‘No, I’m a translator. Perhaps one day I’ll be a writer. But not …
signora
, I could never be —’

She waved her hands in that frustrating Venetian sign that means
I’m not listening to your nonsense
. ‘To Willem, this is work. He is proud of it, works hard, tries to do the best he can, and he is, indeed, very good at it. But it doesn’t fill his soul and his heart the way it does mine — and yours.’ Her dark eyes sought my own. ‘I see it in you, Isabella, in your excitement when we begin a new work, your pleasure at the start of each day.’

I smiled. ‘That much is true.’

‘Then what?’

‘It’s a risky business being a publisher,’ I said. ‘There’s the money, and you have to deal with authors and people like Fra Clement trying to shut down your business and —’

‘Pah! He doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Only the books. Only the words.’

‘But —’

‘If you were younger,’ she said, ‘I might adopt you as the daughter I never had.’

‘Oh,
signora
.’ A sob caught in my throat.

‘But we are equals, you and I.’

‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘I’ve got so much to learn.’

‘And you will. But already you manage the translation side of the business better than Luis or I ever have.’

‘You do yourself a disservice,
signora
.’

‘And that’s another thing: it is time you called me by my name. I am Valentina.’

‘Valentina. It’s beautiful.’

‘It was my mother’s name.’

‘It seems strange to call you that, after all this time.’

‘And if I should not return from this absurd adventure —’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said.

‘Isabella, I name you as my business partner, as a proprietor of the Mermaid Press, owner with me of this entire empire.’ She spread her arms wide and laughed. ‘All of it.’

Dread clutched at my insides. ‘I’m not ready.’

‘That’s for me to decide,’ she said. ‘And if I do not survive this journey, you will inherit it all.’

‘But —’

‘Do not argue with me, Isabella. I have decided. I have told Luis. He will make sure that the papers are drawn up before we leave.’

The
signora
watched me closely as I struggled for a breath, and for a hold on the strange whirl of feelings inside me: elation, pride, a touch of sorrow, and fear. Always fear. But then I imagined Master de Aquila smiling. Had he known, that day we first climbed the stairs to the workshop? Had he planned, all along, to introduce me to the
signora
?

‘Do you hear me?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. Tears prickled in my eyes. ‘I thank you for your trust in me. It means so much — more than I can say.’

She squeezed my hand. ‘To me, too.’

‘Thank you.’ It came out as a whisper.

‘Now I can rest more easily.’

‘But I’m only going along with this,’ I said, ‘because I know you will come home to Venice one day soon, and everything will be just as it was.’

‘Promise?’

‘I swear it.’

But I had no idea if it was true.

The illusion of calm we’d created couldn’t last. We all knew that. We met one evening over supper in the
signora
’s salon to plan our next steps.

Luis was convinced that Fra Clement and his Inquisitors would try to stop us leaving the city. ‘If he suspects for one moment that you intend to flee, he will have you arrested.’

‘I will not wait around for him and his henchmen,’ said Al-Qasim.

‘Let them try,’ said Willem. ‘I could knock that Brother Andreas over with a sheet of paper.’

‘If they try, they will succeed,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘Believe me.’

Willem fell silent. Signora Contarini stared into her glass of wine as if she could see the future in it. Al-Qasim flexed his fingers, watching as they curled and stretched against the white tablecloth.

‘I have an idea,’ I said.

‘Lord save us,’ said Willem.

‘There’s no need to be like that,’ I said. ‘I have brilliant ideas.’

‘Perhaps so,’ he shot back, ‘but they often result in me getting stabbed or chased or arrested.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve never been stabbed. Not once.’

‘So far.’

I punched his arm. I hadn’t done that for such a long time, but since we were about to launch into another adventure, I felt it was overdue.

‘Ow! See?’

‘My dears,’ said the
signora
, ‘stop squabbling.’

Willem and I sat up straight like naughty children.

‘What is this brilliant idea?’ she asked.

‘You may not like it,’ I warned.

‘This is sounding worse by the moment,’ said Willem.

‘Trust me,’ I said.

The next afternoon, all the best Venetian families received a beautifully printed invitation to a ball at Signora Contarini’s
palazzo
. There was an enormous party in Venice every year on the first night of Carnevale, when everyone in the city gathered in the piazza for fireworks and dancing and to show off their finest gowns. This time, the
signora
invited friends and family to a costume ball earlier in the evening so that the celebrations would last throughout the night.

Carnevale season was frantic enough at the best of times: the city came alive with processions and masquerades, and bells rang from every tower. But this year, the
signora
assured her friends, would be the most exciting ever.

‘You simply must come,’ she told everyone. ‘Wear your masks and your Carnevale outfits. It will be the most stupendous night.’

We threw ourselves into a frenzy of preparation. Luis supervised the arrangements, moving furniture from room to room and dropping great lengths of fabric from every window so they fluttered across the Grand Canal like banners.

‘There,’ said Luis. ‘Does that look to you like the home of someone who is about to flee for her life?’

‘Far from it,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘It seems as if the
palazzo
itself is defying Fra Clement.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘That’s just what we want him to think — what we want everyone to think.’

Pietro had offered to act as host of the ball, so his servants scurried around the
palazzo
with flowers and candles. In the kitchens, a team of pastry chefs created hundreds of citrus tarts and cakes doused in honey. A steady stream of boats delivered ice and wine. Signora Contarini shouted a great deal, and Willem wisely hid in the workshop and only came near us at mealtimes.

Despite the excitement, my mind was often elsewhere. In my heart, I said farewell to Venice, to everything I loved about the city, and walked through its streets filled with longing, as if I had already left. I noticed all the little details, the stones and the sounds, and tried desperately to memorise them all. I wanted to imprint the city on the pages of my mind so that I would never forget: the women heading to work in the Arsenale early each morning, boats laden with vegetables or cloth or even coffins, a vine growing up a pink wall, mongers calling out in the fish markets, the islands in the mist, domes and belltowers, children’s laughter in the
campo
, clouds low on the lagoon, moonlight on water, seaweed, flowers
on a windowsill. I breathed it in, all of it, so that my heart was full of Venice and it would never leave me.

But, too soon, it was time to go.

The
signora
and I had spent every evening locked in her bedchamber with her seamstress, Maria, working on our costumes for the party and the fireworks afterwards.

‘Remarkable,’ I said, as Maria put the finishing touches to the
signora
’s outfit on the afternoon of the party. Her fingers darted across the fabric. ‘You are so clever.’

‘Nobody will ever recognise you,’ said Maria.

‘Thank you, Maria, you have done wonders,’ said Signora Contarini.

‘It is my honour. Do you wish me to bring your ballgown?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the
signora
. ‘You run along.’

Maria picked up her basket and a roll of spare fabric from the bureau.

‘Here,’ said the
signora
, rummaging in her desk drawer. ‘Something for your trouble.’

Maria glanced down at the coins in her hand. ‘No, no, this is too much. It’s a year’s wages for a woman like me. More.’

‘Please, take it, and bless you, Maria.’

Maria blushed. I knew that she was the
signora
’s distant cousin. Her husband had lost his fortune at the card tables, like so many, then promptly died of fever, leaving her to care for five children. She raised her eyes to meet Signora Contarini’s gaze. ‘It’s not necessary.’

‘You have earned every bit of it,’ said the
signora
. ‘At least, you will soon. Go now.’

Signora Contarini closed the door behind Maria and rested her forehead against the doorframe. Then she turned around to face me and grinned.

‘My goodness, this outfit! What do you think?’

‘Walk around a little.’

The
signora
took a few tentative steps across the rug. She was dressed head to toe in black silk, in breeches and long coat with a cavalier’s hat. She stopped to stare at her reflection in the looking glass and fastened an impassive gold mask over her face.

‘How extraordinary!’ she said.

I laughed. ‘You see? Dressed in a man’s clothes, you could ride across Italy or fight in a battle.’

‘Or step over a puddle in the piazza without getting my petticoats wet.’

‘Even that. No more tottering along in shoes tall enough to break your ankle.’

She took a few more steps, then spun around slowly, looking down in amazement at her legs. ‘Do you think this is how men feel all the time?’

‘I imagine they’re so used to it they don’t even notice.’

She took off her mask and threw it onto her desk. ‘If women felt like this, why, nothing could stop us.’

‘I don’t think anything could stop you if you put your mind to it, in breeches or gown.’

‘So I have always thought,’ she said. ‘But this! It’s shocking. It’s as if the world has suddenly turned on its head, as if all the planets have realigned themselves into a pattern I hardly recognise.’ She sat down heavily on the chaise. ‘Isabella, I’m not sure I can do this.’

I kneeled beside her and took one of her hands in mine. ‘They’re only clothes.’

She sighed. ‘It’s not that. The rest — it’s too much. Escaping. Leaving my city, my press, my family, even my faith, behind.’

‘It won’t be forever,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

‘Not for you, perhaps. You are young.’

‘Oh really, now you’re talking nonsense.’ I stood up. ‘You’re barely ten years older than I am. Stop behaving as if you were some ancient crone.’

‘I feel it sometimes,’ she said, but managed a smile. It lasted just a moment, then she slumped back, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so sure about my brilliant plan, either.

‘
Signora
, I’m so sorry to have brought all this upon you.’

‘So,’ she said, ‘it was you who made all this happen, was it?’

‘In a way, yes. By coming here, publishing
The Sum of All Knowledge
.’

‘Don’t be absurd. It’s not your fault. It’s him. Them.’ She waved a hand in the vague direction of the Doge’s Palace and Fra Clement. ‘I would do it all again, even now I know the price we must pay.’

‘Would you?’

‘Come here.’ She patted my cheek. ‘You must forgive me my moment of doubt, of fear.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’m sure we all feel the same, except, perhaps, Al-Qasim.’

‘Especially him.’

‘But he’ll be back in Constantinople, with his people,’ I said.

‘They are not the people of his heart. He leaves behind that which is most precious to him.’

‘But —’

She sat up straight. ‘I am sounding morose again. There is no time for that. We have too much to do. Let us go.’

She stood up and smoothed her doublet with both hands. ‘Look at me! I am the image of Pietro, although much more handsome.’ At last, she conjured a smile as broad and sun-filled as the lagoon. ‘Go now, Isabella. I will meet you downstairs.’

As I closed the door, I peeked behind me and saw her twirl, arms wide open, in her breeches and cloak. The sound of her laughter echoed, as it so often did, throughout the
palazzo
.

I packed very little: two changes of clothes and a good gown in case I ever had to look respectable; my journals, pens and ink; new editions of my father’s books; Master de Aquila’s hat and the manuscript of
The Sum of All Knowledge
, written in his sloping script. At the last moment, I stuffed the
signora
’s pearl-handled dagger into the bag, along with my well-thumbed volumes of Herodotus’s
Histories
.

I left behind the rest of the possessions I’d gathered in Venice: a silver comb, a fan of Maltese lace, fine gowns, silk slippers and a perfume flask of Murano glass. Most of them were gifts from Signora Contarini, just like the roof over my head and my place in her workshop.

I ran my fingers over the dozens of books on the shelf, relishing the feel of the mottled calfskin and the stamped lettering on the spines as much as my memories of the words inside each volume. These were my real treasures, but there were too many to take with me. Some were books we had printed, my friends and I. Some I had inherited from Master de Aquila: the books he had bought on our long journey from Amsterdam; each one a reminder of a distant city, a market stall, a bookseller’s shop; each one a memory of him and his joy. Many were books that I had bought and read time after time: about battles and famous deeds; about birds, flowers and the wonders of the New World; books filled with adventures or history or science, in which great men — or women — spoke to me of their thoughts and discoveries.

What a miracle, to have so much wisdom, beauty and genius at my fingertips. It felt like saying farewell to dear friends. I had no idea if I would ever see them again. At one time in my life, I might have said that books were all that mattered. But now I knew that wasn’t true. I had grown up surrounded by books, and until the war came my father and I might have both said that books were our lives, our livelihood. But now he was lost to me, and I lived every day, every hour, with that knowledge — that grief. Now I knew that books mattered a great deal, but not as much as people — as life.

I picked up the perfume flask and held it against the sunshine, tilting it one way and another. The light streamed through the coloured glass and threw fragments of rainbow onto the wall behind me. I watched them flicker and fade as twilight closed in, my mind first racing through myriad possibilities and then lingering on questions that seemed to hold no answers. Was I to spend all my life fleeing from one city to another in search of refuge? Would I never have a place to call my own, a library filled with books, a garden, a family? How could I repay my friends for their many kindnesses and their fierce loyalty?

When the
signora
knocked on my door an hour later, she found me slumped on the bed.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Not you, too? I just realised I’ve been sitting staring blankly at my father’s old edition of Dante since you left me.’

‘I’m weary, that’s all,’ I said. ‘I doubt I have the strength to get through the next hour, let alone the whole evening.’

She climbed up onto the bed next to me and pulled the quilt over herself.

‘If someone as brave as you feels like that,’ she said, ‘imagine how feeble I feel.’

‘I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m brave.’

‘When, in fact, you are fearful all the time? You wake at night in tears?’

‘How do you know?’

‘These men, they see in you a woman who argues with tyrants and they think you must be powerful, fearless, always. Yet we women know the truth, and that we cannot let them see our weaknesses.’

‘You, too?’

‘Let us try to think of all this as an adventure,’ she said, ‘just like in those Spanish romances, or we shall both be too immobilised to go on.’

‘You don’t even like those sorts of books.’

She chuckled. ‘We are more alike than you know. In so many ways. You feel the same way as I do about our work and about books, as your master did, bless his soul in heaven. Perhaps you inherited it from your father? Words are in you, part of you. Without them, you would not be who you are.’

‘It’s always been that way,’ I said. ‘Writing down words — now printing them — in the hope someone will read them. My father …’ As always, words about him, of our life together, caught in my throat.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘At times it’s felt like a burden, even a curse. It has certainly brought me endless trouble. But now I believe it’s a gift.’

‘From God?’ she asked.

‘Or from my father.’

‘Aren’t we lucky, you and I?’

‘We are indeed,
signora
.’

‘You are to call me Valentina, remember?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Valentina.’

‘So now,’ she said, ‘it is time for us to take on the world.’

We heard afterwards that Signora Contarini’s masquerade ball was a triumph. The women were beautiful, and so were many of the men. The fruit ices and frozen wine were a tremendous success, and at the height of festivities Pietro announced his betrothal to the granddaughter of the Doge. Nobody recognised anyone else under their masks, which led to all kinds of embarrassment, intrigue and even entanglements, which is just how a party should be in Venice. Everyone toasted Signora Contarini’s good health and virtue, and danced until it was time to watch the fireworks.